


Retribution

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied Past Non-Con, Implied Torture, Kidnapping, Language, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after his return from the dead, Sherlock is faced with a case that threatens all he sought to protect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.
> 
>  **Betas:** [](http://canonisrelative.livejournal.com/profile)[**canonisrelative**](http://canonisrelative.livejournal.com/) , [geniusbee](http://geniusbee.tumblr.com), and   
> [ ](http://killerweasel.livejournal.com/profile)[**killerweasel**](http://killerweasel.livejournal.com/)
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> _  
>  Sed omnis una manet nox et calcanda semel via leti.   
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> "But one night waits for all and the road of death is to be tread only once."   
> \- Horace   
> (Carmina, Liber I, XXVIII)
> 
> * * *
> 
>   

For the first time in nearly three weeks, John didn’t wake to the sound of something exploding in the kitchen. He didn’t wake to the pounding of feet up the stairs to his room -- _John, client!_ \--or to the _crash_ of something having been hurled at the wall in frustration.  
  
For the first time in nearly three weeks, John woke to the silence of dawn.  
  
He was apprehensive at first. But the quiet was contented as opposed to ominous, and John breathed a sigh of relief. They had wrapped a case just eight hours before, and he ached down to the bone from all their exertions. No doubt Sherlock was feeling the same, going by how shattered he’d looked when they stumbled through the door the previous night. With any luck, Sherlock was now in the midst of a self-induced coma, and John could spend the next few days catching up on all the work and sleep he’d been neglecting.  
  
But first, a shower, because _God_ , he stank. John rolled out of bed, grabbed a towel, and padded downstairs.  
  
He found, however, that Sherlock was already awake, and working at the kitchen table with a cup of stone-cold coffee by his elbow. He was dressed in his pajamas and dressing gown, but the nightclothes appeared to just be a pretense: Sherlock looked as though he hadn’t slept at all. His hair was still damp from his shower, but his face was puffy with exhaustion and deep purple crescents sat under his eyes.  
  
“Morning, Sher...” John muttered as he passed his flatmate, losing half the name to a yawn. Sherlock merely grunted in response.  
  
John emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later with the towel secured around his waist and made his way back up to his bedroom to dress. Sherlock had his mobile to his ear, and was speaking testily to the person on the other end whilst simultaneously peering through his microscope.  
  
“What about _not interested_ do you not understand, Mycroft? I haven’t - _careful_ ,” Sherlock hissed to John as he sidled by.  
  
“I barely touched you,” John sighed, but it was more amused than exasperated. “Tea?”  
  
“Mmm,” Sherlock said absently. “Ten minutes.”  
  
John grinned and shook his head, making his way to the stairs. Six months since Sherlock’s return, and he was still getting used to these subtle changes in his friend. He was still acerbic and arrogant, yes, but his years of hardship and absence had softened his roughest edges. John was still more likely to find a half-finished experiment in his mug rather than tea five days out of seven, but Sherlock’s heart was in the right place.  
  
Back in his room, John opened his wardrobe, fingers brushing the small note he had affixed to the inside of the door, as was his ritual each morning.  
  
 _Sherlock is alive_.  
  
He had written it in January, not long after Sherlock's return, because for too many mornings after that wintry night that realization was not automatic. Three years of thinking his best friend dead was a difficult state-of-mind to snap out of, and it wouldn’t be until he stumbled across Sherlock in the kitchen or happened upon the occupied bathroom that the memory would return. The note had helped that. And though it was no longer a necessary reminder, the note served as the physical marker of a miracle, and John couldn’t bring himself to remove it.  
  
 _Sherlock is alive_.  
  
  
It wasn’t until late afternoon when John finally managed to secure a moment to check his blog. He’d meant to do it first thing that morning--answering comments tended to consume a fair bit of time for him--but then Sherlock had spilled one of his chemical concoctions and they’d needed to evacuate the building. Standing outside on an unusually chilly summer’s day hadn’t been the way John imagined spending his morning, and his irritation was compounded by the ever-present threat of a storm over their heads, along with the light mist that made everything uncomfortably damp.  
  
The morning had been lost, then, to safely cleaning up the mess, and for the first part of the afternoon Mrs Hudson fussed over them and the state of the flat. Sherlock had indulged her patiently--another surprise, as he used to only tolerate it for about fifteen minutes--and it was John who eventually gave in and, politely, requested that she leave them to deal with things on their own.  
  
But now, finally, they were alone. Sherlock was pacing in the kitchen, ranting once again on the phone to Mycroft. John sat down and started on his usual morning ritual. He opened his latest blog post and glanced through the comments. Most were from regular readers, praising Sherlock’s seemingly-impossible deductions and John’s level-headedness at the crucial moment. He paused to answer a few of them with a general note of thanks, and further down he addressed a couple of questions regarding the timeline of the night’s events. He had written the post while still high on adrenaline, wanting to get all of the facts down before they were lost to sleep or dulled by the passage of time, but in his haste he had left out a few minor details. He then deleted a few comments that were obviously spam, chuckling at one in particular with a header that read _Thought you might like this..._ and then provided a link.  
  
“ _Click here for a show?_ ” John muttered in amusement, reading the link aloud. “Sorry, mate. Don’t exactly need your help finding _that_.”  
  
He clicked away, going off to check his email. He answered a message from Harry - _Mum’s birthday is coming up; are there any plans in the works?_ \- before wandering over to Sherlock’s blog. He got a bit of a smug thrill out of comparing their hit counters. His latest post had received nearly two thousand hits overnight; Sherlock’s, on the other hand, had received only fifty. That was actually a decent number for him, in all honesty, and John frowned in bemusement, wondering what had been so bloody interesting that Sherlock had received so many visitors. He hadn’t updated the blog in nearly two weeks.  
  
John clicked on Sherlock’s latest post, scrolling down to the comments. There had been none the last time he checked; now, there were five.  
  
 _Thought you might like this..._  
  
It was that same spam message, repeated five times over, each with the same link. John blinked, and then glanced at the time stamps. The first message had been posted around mid-morning; the others followed every hour or so. The fifth and final one had been posted just five minutes before.  
  
After John had deleted the one off his own blog.  
  
John returned to his blog and opened the latest post. Sure enough, right at the bottom, the link had been posted again. Just seconds ago.  
  
 _Thought you might like this..._  
  
“No,” John muttered to himself, trepidation sitting uncomfortably in his stomach, “No, I don’t think I will.”  
  
And then he opened the link.  
  
  
The video was grainy and shot in black-and-white, two factors that, when combined, made it especially difficult to tell exactly what was happening. And then, once the thought of what he might be watching crossed John’s mind, his brain tried very hard to convince him that he was _not_ seeing it.  
  
Except, unfortunately, he was.  
  
He was looking at the inside of a box, apparently via a camera that had been affixed to one of the top corners. There was a man inside, lying on his back, seemingly unconscious. He was barefoot, wearing only jeans and a plain cotton tee that was soiled down the front. Blood, John assumed, though he hoped it was only sweat. The lack of colour made it difficult to say for sure.  
  
The man’s hands were bound in front of him at the wrists, and a thick cloth blindfolded him, stretching from the middle of his forehead to almost down over his nose, making it difficult to make out his features. The box he was in was perhaps twice the size of a coffin, permitting some maneuverability.  
  
The camera John was watching from had been fixed to a corner at the man’s feet, and so only a portion of his face was visible. John couldn’t discern whether he had taken any blows to the head, or sustained any other injuries apart from the one that--theoretically--left the stain on his shirt. A small clock in the bottom corner of the page read the time, and John could also make out the outline of a lit torch just behind the man’s shoulder.  
  
He had been buried alive, and someone wanted--very badly--for them to see it.  
  
“Oh, God.” John swallowed. “Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, recording numbers in a ledger while part of one experiment simmered on the stove and another sat brewing over a Bunsen burner. He sighed impatiently through his nose, irritation at being interrupted heightened by his lack of sleep and the fact that Mycroft was apparently hounding him to work on a case. “Not now.”  
  
“Sherlock.” John stood on shaky legs and strode unsteadily into the kitchen.  
  
“ _Busy_.”  
  
John shoved the laptop in front of Sherlock’s nose. “Too bad.”  
  
Sherlock blinked at the grainy image on the screen, and then snatched the laptop from John’s hands.  
  
“Who sent this to you?” he asked briskly, suddenly alert, all exhaustion seemingly shoved aside.  
  
“Who - yeah, right, he gave me his name and everything. ‘Dear John, thought you might like this video of someone who has been _buried alive_.’”  
  
“Don’t be sarcastic, John, you aren’t very good at it,” Sherlock scolded. John sighed.  
  
“Someone left a comment on my blog. A link. I thought it was just a spam message, so I deleted it. But then I noticed they had done the same thing to yours.”  
  
“Interesting.” Sherlock pulled up both blogs, the corner of his mouth quirking as he did so. John suppressed a sigh; he would have to scold Sherlock about looking gleeful later. “Go on.”  
  
John shrugged. “That’s it, really. When I went back to my own blog, I noticed that whoever it was had commented again, with that link.”  
  
“Curious.” Sherlock pulled out his mobile and pressed _1_ on the speed dial.  
  
“Lestrade?” John asked incredulously, because though he might be first in Sherlock’s phone, Lestrade was always the _last_ call whenever there was something truly interesting about.  
  
“Mm,” Sherlock said distractedly. “He has access to some equipment that would make analyzing this video -”  
  
Sherlock stopped speaking abruptly, grinding to a halt mid-sentence. His jaw went slack and the colour faded from his face.  
  
“What is it?” John asked harshly.  
  
Sherlock jerked the mobile away from his ear and put it on speakerphone. John, used to the clipped message that sometimes greeted him when he called the Inspector, knew at once that something was wrong. A new message had been recorded. It was Lestrade’s voice, but his tone was tight, as though the words were being forced out of him.  
  
 _\--Lestrade. I’m a bit tied up at the moment. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as you find me._  
  
“That’s not his usual message,” John said stupidly. Realisation washed over him in a cold wave, and his eyes strayed hesitantly to the video. “That’s... Oh, my God...”  
  
“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, his voice low and vicious. “Oh, you stupid, _stupid_ man.”  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“That’s... that’s Lestrade,” John repeated stupidly. He could see it now, picking out the familiar features of the older man - the slight curve of the belly; the blunt fingers, one of which had a tan line from his absent wedding band; the prominent nose and stubbled jaw.

_Fucking hell._

Sherlock, for his part, looked just as rattled as John. He still held the mobile out, eyes wide and fixed blankly on the screen.

He looked _shocked._

“Sherlock,” John said sharply, tugging the phone away from his friend and ending the call. He snapped his fingers. _“Sherlock.”_

“Yes, right,” Sherlock said abruptly. He snatched his mobile back from John and pocketed it.

“Aren’t you going to call the Yard?” John asked, aghast, but Sherlock was no longer paying him any mind. His eyes darted rapidly back-and-forth, a gesture John recognized as Sherlock retreating into his mind; reading his hard drive.

“A box that size, and a person of Lestrade’s height... he would only have four hours of air. Perhaps longer, if he stays unconscious, but likely he'll have woken up and panicked. That will consume oxygen,” Sherlock rattled off quickly. He reached for his own laptop and opened it, immediately attacking the keys.

“Who would do something like this?” John muttered. He was finding it difficult to look away from the screen. The analytical part of his brain had kicked in, and he was busy searching Lestrade’s body for clues; marks only a doctor would notice. But the awkward angle of the camera and poor quality of the video made it difficult to draw any conclusions about Lestrade’s condition.

In short, John was completely and utterly useless.

“An attack like this is personal,” Sherlock muttered. “The kidnapper--male, most likely--is being driven by emotion. If his sole end goal was to have Lestrade dead, he would have killed him outright. But no, he wants Lestrade to suffer. Perhaps because he suffered, or someone close to him did, because of Lestrade. Love is a powerful motivator, John Watson.”

“So you’ve said,” John murmured, only half-listening. He was, essentially, watching a man on his deathbed--or a man already dead, as they had no idea how old that video was. And while John was no stranger to colleagues, to friends, dying, that was something he was supposed to have left behind in Afghanistan.

The war wasn’t supposed to have followed him home.

“But the kidnapper also doesn’t need to be there for the execution.” Sherlock paused in his work on the laptop; looked up, briefly, staring at a point in the middle distance. “Elegant.”

“Sherlock,” John growled, the echoes of the case that preceded Sherlock’s fall coming back to him with those words. “Not the time.”

 _Echoes. Sound._ John blinked, a sudden thought occurring to him. He reached around Sherlock to tap a few keys on the laptop.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded.

“Turning on the sound,” John said. “Just in case we can hear what’s going on in there, too. Might be useful.”

They could, as it turned out, but the speakers picked up nothing beyond Lestrade’s slow breathing. 

“Pause the video,” Sherlock said abruptly, sparing John only the briefest of glances. He pushed away from the table and darted down the hallway to his bedroom. “Rewind it fifteen seconds!”

“Why?” John called to him, but moved to comply.

“I saw something, but the quality of the video is poor and I need -”

“Sherlock. I can’t rewind it.”

“It’s the tiny arrow pointing to the _left_ , John, honestly. How do you manage -”

“No,” John said, shaking his head as Sherlock came back into the kitchen, this time carrying his magnifying glass. “I can’t rewind it... because it’s a live feed.”

Sherlock tried to shoulder him out of the way, but John pushed back.

“No, I’m serious,” he said. “And look at this.”

He pointed at a counter in the bottom right-hand corner, one he had dismissed earlier as a clock because the numbers had aligned so closely with the hour. But it wasn’t advancing.

It was counting down.

“Hours of air,” Sherlock muttered, and John nodded.

_4:30_

“You can’t solve this in four hours,” John said quietly. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but even you aren’t that good.”

The look Sherlock fixed him with was unreadable, but when he spoke, his voice was stony.

“I have to be.”

\----

Sally Donovan was the first to spot them when they strode into the Yard not half an hour later, snaking between the desks as they made their way toward Lestrade’s office.

“He’s not here,” she said briskly, rising from her desk to plant herself firmly between Sherlock and the entrance to Lestrade’s office.

“I’m aware,” Sherlock snapped. He gave her a mirthless smile. “We’re here to see _you_ , Donovan.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Well, I haven’t got time to indulge you. If you’re that bored, you’ll just have to wait for the Inspector to come back. I certainly won’t be helping you.”

“And that will be a bit difficult, _Sally_ ,” Sherlock sneered, stepping around her and breezing down the hallway, “seeing as he’s been kidnapped.”

Several heads turned to look at them in slight alarm. Donovan turned ashen, swore under her breath, and bolted down the hallway after Sherlock.

“What do you mean,” she asked, stopping in front of him and halting him in his tracks, “”

“Exactly what I said, Donovan. Even you should be able to understand what that means,” Sherlock said venomously, trying to move around her. She held firm, holding him in place with a hand on his chest and a terrifying glare.

“John,” she said, voice low and deadly, “what’s he talking about?”

John wet his lips. “I... think it’s something you need to see, actually. Is there somewhere we can go? Talk in private?”

There was a pause, and then Donovan nodded, brisk.

“Conference room. You get five minutes.” She pointed her finger at Sherlock’s face. “No more. Understood?”

Sherlock sniffed, said, “I’ll only need two, anyway,” and led the way to the conference room.

\----

Donovan blanched when John pulled out his laptop and opened to his blog. 

“Wait a minute,” she said, grabbing his forearm before he could click on the link.

“You got it, too, didn’t you?” Sherlock asked quietly. 

Donovan nodded slowly. “In an email, this morning. Thought it was spam, so I deleted it. But that was the subject line, and that’s not a link title I’d forget.”

“John, open it,” Sherlock ordered, and John did so. Donovan stared in horror at the video for a full minute. Sherlock leaned over her shoulder, hissing into her ear. “I bet everyone on Lestrade’s team, everyone who’s ever worked for him, received this link today. We just happened to be the first ones to open it. Check with Anderson, or Smith, or Molly Hooper. Someone out there is _punishing_ Lestrade, and they want us all to watch as it happens. Now, why would that be?”

“When did you last see him?” John asked before Donovan could respond to Sherlock.

“Today’s his day off,” she said, though her eyes remained fixed on the screen. “He was still here last night when I left; God only knows when he went home.”

“What time was that?”

“Eight,” Donovan said. “That was the last I saw of him.”

“And no word from him this morning?” Sherlock continued briskly.

“No, but that’s not unusual. Sometimes he’ll check in, or get called in. But today’s been quiet.” Her eyes strayed to the laptop again. “ _Was_ quiet.”

“He’s got less than four hours,” John broke in irritably. They didn’t have time for this. “Was he planning on doing anything today? Did he mention anything to you?”

Donovan shook her head. “No. The Inspector’s a private man; doesn’t talk much about his home life.” She drew herself up to her full height, suddenly business-like. “Right, then. I’ll get a team out to his place, see if we can figure out where he might have been taken from.”

“Bring me his case files.”

Donovan’s eyes flashed. “This isn’t the time for games, Holmes, and I won’t have you hanging around, playing with your little deductions because you’re bored. Go home.”

“He goes home, and Lestrade dies,” John said bluntly. “You _know_ that.” He turned to Sherlock. “You think this is the work of someone Lestrade put away. Someone who’s maybe out now?”

“It is personal. This would have taken time, effort, careful planning. And whoever it is wants Lestrade’s team to watch him die.” Sherlock leaned toward Donovan, eyes blazing. “Who else would go through all of that effort, if not someone who felt wronged by Lestrade?”

Donovan regarded him heavily for some moments.

“I’ll have someone bring you the files,” she decided abruptly. “If it’ll keep you out of our hair, that’s good enough for me.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched, but he visibly swallowed his retort and nodded tightly. “And I’ll need access to his email.”

“Bloody hell, Holmes, we can’t just -”

“What if someone had been sending him death threats?” Sherlock shot back. “What if someone contacted him, someone who took issue with him? He wouldn’t ask for help; you know that as well as I. He would take it upon himself to fix things. To right the wrong, especially if he felt responsible. Remember that stalker he had a few years back?”

Donovan nodded jerkily.

Sherlock’s face hardened. “Then _let me help you_ , Donovan.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I thought you only cared for the cases,” Donovan muttered at last. “Those years changed you, didn’t they?”

Sherlock’s face hardened, and John held back a wince. They hadn’t talked about Sherlock’s years of absence since his first night back. They certainly didn’t talk about the humiliation Sherlock suffered as his life’s work was torn down in a single day; they didn’t talk about Lestrade’s loss of his job, nor about John’s relocation from Baker Street. Sherlock had come back; Lestrade had been reinstated; John had moved back in. And this, somehow, permitted them the ability to get through each day; had lessened the pain of the open wound that was those three years of absence. John had never brought it up again; not one of their friends dared to, in fact.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Sherlock said, his voice cold. “It’s intriguing. Clever. Now stop stalling and bring me those files, Donovan, or you won’t have a case left to solve!”

But Donovan was no longer paying attention to them. Her attention was drawn to a spot over Sherlock’s shoulder.

To the laptop.

They turned, and John felt the blood rush from his face once he realized what Donovan was watching.

Lestrade was waking up.

“Oh, God,” Donovan muttered, and then fell silent. They watched as Lestrade groggily rolled first onto his side, and then onto his back again. John imagined that he was blinking rapidly, trying to figure out why the darkness was so persistent before his senses fully woke and he realized he had been blindfolded.

John turned to Donovan. “Is there some way to trace the feed?”

She already had her phone out and pressed to her ear. “I’ll get someone up here to try. We’ll - Tom? Donovan. Listen -”

Donovan turned away, speaking rapidly into the mobile. John and Sherlock watched as Lestrade tried to sit up, only to immediately be hampered by the box’s low ceiling. He hit his forehead hard against the wood; though the speakers on the laptop were tuned low, the smack was still easily audible, as was Lestrade’s curse. He tried again, only to be met with the same results. 

It was then that Lestrade went very still. John swallowed. This was the moment of realisation. 

Lestrade, slowly, reached out and pressed his bound hands to the ceiling. He felt along the top of the box, as far as his hands could reach, and then rolled over, feeling for the sides. He then rolled onto his back again and touched the base of the box with his feet, and also tried to raise his knees.

“He’s figuring out how big it is,” John muttered. Sherlock nodded absently. At least Lestrade wasn’t panicking, though John had no idea how he was managing to keep it together so well--or if it would last. 

Donovan returned. “They’re going to try to trace the feed, and Smith will get you those files. I’m taking a team over to his flat; don’t suppose you want in on that?”

Sherlock shook his head, still staring at Lestrade. “He wasn’t taken from his flat. You’ll find nothing of use there. You’re wasting your time.”

“Right, yeah, thanks,” Donovan muttered. She moved to leave the room; John started to follow.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock’s voice was sharp.

“I’m going with them, Sherlock!” John snapped. “What does it look like?”

“But I need -”

“No, you don’t,” John said bluntly. “I’m bloody useless here. You _don’t need me_ , Sherlock. I can’t see the things that you do. So let me _do_ something, all right?”

“I think better when I talk out loud,” Sherlock said, lifting his chin defiantly. 

“Then talk,” John said. He gestured to the room at large. “Talk to one of them. Talk to yourself. But I’m no good to Lestrade just sitting here. So do you what you need to do, and I’ll... I’ll do the same.”

He turned on his heel and swept from the room without another word, following Donovan and another sergeant.

\-----

It was Anderson who delivered the files three minutes after Donovan and John left.

“You’re not Smith,” Sherlock said, grabbing them out of his hand.

“Brilliant, that,” Anderson muttered. “Good thing we’ve got you on the case, with those marvelous observation skills of yours.”

Sherlock didn’t deign to answer. He spun away instead, spreading the files out on the table. They were meticulously kept, that much he would grant, and it appeared at first glance that Anderson had indeed brought him the entirety of Lestrade’s twenty-year career. He debated for a moment whether to sort them by year or perpetrator, and eventually settled on ordering them chronologically. It would make them easier to sort through.

And, he quickly discovered, it made omissions easier to spot.

“There’s a file missing,” he barked, catching Anderson on the threshold as he made to leave the room. “From 2005.”

“Yeah, I know,” Anderson said. Sherlock felt rage bloom in a hot wave across his chest with the ease at which Anderson admitted this. “January.”

“I said bring me _all_ his cases,” Sherlock snapped, returning to his work.

“I just didn’t think you’d want -” Anderson broke off abruptly; sighed. “Yeah, fine. I’ll get it.” And then: “How’s he doing?”

Sherlock glanced up, and was about to make a sharp reply about having better things to do than answer inane questions.

But instead, he said, “Well enough.”

Lestrade had been awake for less than ten minutes. His movements were sluggish still, as though whatever had knocked him out was still lingering in his system. Or, more worryingly, as though he had suffered a blow to the head. Anderson was seemingly transfixed by the man’s slow movements, and stood watching while Sherlock worked.

_Lauren Danby, 43, perished 1992. Killer was Dennis O’Connell, died in prison 2003, no family._

Sherlock marked that one as _unlikely_ and moved on to the next.

_Aiden Smith, 27, perished 1992. Killer was Adam Smith, brother, now in prison. Surviving relatives include elderly mother, father, and aunt._

Also unlikely.

“Fuck.”

“Anderson, take your chatter someplace else, I haven’t -”

“No,’ Anderson interrupted, pointing at the screen. “He’s trying to -”

Anderson broke off, his words replaced by a _bang_. Two more followed in rapid succession, all of the noise coming from the laptop. Sherlock threw down his pen and moved to the other side of the table so he could see the laptop.

Lestrade, his wrists still bound, had curled his hands into fists and slammed them against the ceiling of the box. He repeated this futile attempt at escape three more times, cursing furiously all the while. Even through the grainy video they could discern Lestrade’s skin breaking; his knuckles bursting and blood starting to run down the backs of his hands. 

“No,” Sherlock hissed. “No, you _idiot_ , that won’t work!”

But Lestrade, of course, couldn’t hear. His movements became increasingly desperate, and he started lashing out with his feet as well. Sherlock spun away, raking a hand through his hair while Anderson continued to stare, motionless.

“Turn that down!” Sherlock barked. Lestrade, desperate; Lestrade, irrational; Lestrade, panicking.

 _No, no, no_. Lestrade was, for all his faults, collected under pressure. He maintained order with brisk efficiency, held his composure even as situations spiraled rapidly out-of-control. He did not show weakness. It was impractical, it was irrational, it was _wrong._

“Call him,” Anderson said abruptly, his voice razor-sharp.

“Don’t be absurd -”

“I’m _not_ , you bloody idiot, just hear me out! For once in your goddamn life.” Anderson pointed at the screen; Sherlock still refused to look at it, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Anderson. “ _Call him_.”

“He doesn’t have his phone on him.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply--and then realised that the first time they had tried to call Lestrade, John hadn’t turned on the sound on his laptop. 

“But what would be the point?” he asked irritably, waving Anderson away. “He can’t answer -”

“No,” Anderson broke in. “He can’t. But he’ll know someone’s trying to contact him. Which means -”

“ - perhaps he’ll believe that, eventually, someone will come looking for him.” Sherlock dug his mobile out of his pocket, fingers dialing Lestrade’s number automatically.

“Calling his phone might calm him for the time being. He’s gonna hurt himself if we let it go on too much longer.”

“And use up what air he has left,” Sherlock muttered. 

Moments later, the tinny ring of Lestrade’s phone filtered through the laptop speakers. Sherlock’s brows snapped together in a frown. _Why?_ Surely the kidnapper wasn’t so stupid as to forget to check for Lestrade’s mobile. Why leave it on him?

_Because it doesn’t matter whether he can call for help or not. The kidnapper feels that his plans are sound. Lestrade will die regardless._

“He’s stopping,” Anderson said suddenly, and Sherlock chanced a glance at the screen. Lestrade’s movements had ceased completely, and he held himself frighteningly still, as though listening hard.

“Now stay that way, you idiot,” Sherlock muttered, but he didn’t ring off until the call went through to Lestrade’s voicemail. For a moment, there came only the sound of raindrops pattering in fits and starts against the wide windows of the conference room. When Anderson finally spoke, his soft words carried like a shout.

“I swear to God, Holmes,” he whispered. “You _find him._ ”

 

Anderson made a quick exit, leaving Sherlock alone in the conference room with Lestrade’s cases. He had lined them up on the table in chronological order, from Lestrade’s early days to just the other month. Pictures of victims smiled up at Sherlock as he perused the table, sitting amidst the official crime scene photographs of their bodies. The far wall was plastered with images of the perpetrators, nearly every man and woman that Lestrade had put away during his career.

Twenty minutes of sifting through the various cases had Sherlock ruling out the majority of a decade’s worth of Lestrade’s work. One man convicted directly because of Lestrade’s efforts were placed on a _possible_ list. He had been released from prison the year prior and, from a brief perusal of his personal blog, appeared to still harbor a grudge that bordered on the obsessive. Sherlock then texted Dimmock his findings, and told him to locate the man.

His eyes then strayed, unbidden, to the laptop.

_2:29._

Lestrade wasn’t moving much; hadn’t, really, since his failed bid for escape. Periodically, he worked at his restraints, but it was evident that he was becoming fatigued--possibly from whatever ordeal he had suffered prior to being placed in the box.

_You stupid, stupid man._

The escape attempt had cost him half an hour’s worth of air. Sherlock wondered whether he was feeling the strain yet; from the way that Lestrade’s nostrils flared, probably, though that also could have been due to anger. Fury.

Humiliation at being so helpless.

Sherlock reached out and brushed his fingers against the screen.

_Do nothing to endanger yourself further. We will find you. Don’t you trust me?_

_God help me, I do,_ Lestrade would say. 

It would make everything a lot simpler if he knew why Lestrade had been taken. Sherlock balled his hand into a fist and forcibly turned away from the screen, looking instead at the files spread out on the table; at the faces on the wall.

_Patterns._

There had to be a pattern here; a _reason._

But here, there was no reason; only chaos. Nonsense. This was the work of irrationality; of impulse; of _pain._

And Sherlock needed John here, because he couldn’t understand such pain; such deep and untouchable _loathing._

 _You’re about to_ , his subconscious sang in his ear, and Sherlock grit his teeth.

“Why are you doing this?” he whispered. He braced his hands on the table, letting his head hang between his arms, his gaze falling on _Susan Dalley, Age 23, Date of Birth 21-1-1970, Date of Death 6-6-1993._ He lifted his hand and slammed his palm flat on the table, the sting of it shocking him out of his stupor, making him more furious. _“Why are you doing this?”_

And then his mobile went off.


	3. Chapter 3

The call was from a number Sherlock didn’t recognize--a habit of Mycroft’s, as he hoped that by dialing Sherlock from unknown numbers, his brother would be expect him to be a client and pick up. And so Sherlock ignored the call, as he had already turned down the job Mycroft had for him twice today.

But when his eyes strayed to the video stream, a message popped up at the bottom of the screen.

_Answer your phone, Sherlock Holmes._

And then, a moment later:

_It really would be in his best interests that you do._

The next time his mobile rang, Sherlock answered it with a curt, “Who is this?” 

There was no sound on the other end of the line. Another message popped up on the laptop, under Lestrade’s prone form.

_Unimportant._

And then: _Are you watching closely?_

“I’m watching,” Sherlock said, intrigue giving way to trepidation.

_Good._

And then it went dark.

\----

When the video stream came back online, the first thing Sherlock noticed was that Lestrade appeared no different than he had a moment ago (and it had only been a moment, though it felt like hours).

The second thing he noticed was that the counter had reset itself.

_4:30._

The green text appeared at the bottom of the screen again, typing out a message: _Every half an hour, I will take something from him._

“Until?”

_Until there’s nothing left to take._

The silence that followed was so long, Sherlock started to fear that the kidnapper had signed off. He couldn’t bring himself to hang up, however. And then, finally, more words appeared on the screen:

_Have you figured it out yet? What I’ve taken?_

“No,” Sherlock admitted through gritted teeth. Lestrade did not appear any different; perhaps a bit rattled, judging by his breathing, and a bit rumpled, going by his clothing, but unharmed.

_And here I thought you were supposed to be a genius._

And then, after a moment: _It’s on its way to you now. Enjoy, Sherlock Holmes._

\----

The package arrived less than ten minutes later, delivered by a non-descript messenger in the lobby and then forwarded to Lestrade’s office.

\----

_You took my father._

John brushed his thumb across the screen; when he looked again, the words were still there.

_You took my father._

Their search of Lestrade’s flat had turned up very little, which was unsurprising. If their timeline was correct, Lestrade had been taken in the morning. He lived on a busy street, and someone would have noticed a body being smuggled out of his building. They had to assume Lestrade left the building under his own power, and hopefully of his own volition. This idea was further buoyed by the fact that his dog was missing from the flat. Donovan had sent out officers to the parks she knew Lestrade frequented, in hopes of finding the animal. It would be much easier to snatch someone off a secluded path in a park, and for now that was the assumption they would have to operate under. It was flimsy at best, and until they found some eye-witnesses, was nothing more than mere speculation.

But until then, they had the mobile.

The phone was Lestrade’s, lifted off the man’s body and delivered by a messenger no one had thought to question. The message on the phone was a text, sent from an unknown number--the same one that had dialed Sherlock’s mobile. 

By sending this message, the kidnapper had told them two things: one, that Lestrade was likely not underground, if his body was so easily accessible, and two, that he--and they--had been granted two extra hours of air when the kidnapper opened the box.

Well, it told them three things, actually.

“Meant for Lestrade,” John muttered, and Sherlock nodded. The kidnapper was likely the child--and, most likely, son--of someone Lestrade had put away. John handed the mobile back to Sherlock and said, “Well, that’s something, yeah? Narrows it down a bit.”

“A bit,” Donovan snorted. She was irritable with terror. “Narrows it down to everyone he put away who might have had a son or daughter--not a small number, mind you. And that’s just the arrests. Who knows who else he might have wronged? Maybe he looked at a fella funny one day at the pub. Bam! Kidnapping and murder, thanks very much.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock snapped, speaking for the first time since Donovan and John had returned. “This took careful planning and execution. No one would have bothered unless the supposed wrong committed was astronomical.”

“So you say,” Donovan muttered, but it lacked heat.

“So I _do_ say,” Sherlock said, eyes flashing.

“Enough.” John stepped in. “This is helping no one, least of all Greg. Let’s start narrowing it down, yeah? Even if it’s not much, it’s something.”

“We don’t have time -”

“We don’t have any other choice, Sherlock, unless you can deduce something right now,” John snapped. He balled his hand into a fist, fighting the urge to strike something. “It might not save his life, but it’s all we’ve got. And if we can’t save him... the least we can do is put the bastard who did this in prison. It’s this or nothing. So unless you’ve got a miracle up your sleeve, this is what’s happening. Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything else the kidnapper told you?”

“He’s going to take something from Lestrade every half an hour.” Sherlock nodded to the phone. “That was the first item. It will escalate.”

“So the good news is that, from now on, every half an hour, the counter will reset itself,” John said. “The bad is that Lestrade may be harmed further.”

“ _Will_ be,” Sherlock corrected sharply. “Until the kidnapper tires of it.”

“Unless what?” Donovan asked. “What does he want in return?”

“Nothing, it would seem.”

“That makes _no_ sense -”

“I think we’ve already established that this case isn’t exactly normal,” John snapped, far harsher than he’d intended. Donovan turned to Sherlock. 

“So you’re saying that Lestrade is either going to run out of air or succumb to his injuries. And there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

“In the kidnapper’s mind, no.”

Donovan swept abruptly from the room, barking orders to the rest of the team. John flexed his left hand. He understood Donovan’s fury and frustration, but Sherlock was right.

“He’s going to die,” Sherlock reiterated, quietly.

John swallowed. “Yeah.”

Sherlock looked away. “It will _hurt_ , John.”

“I know,” John said. Sherlock paced over to the window. “Why all this, though? The box, the restraints, the feed, the air supply... There are other ways to make someone suffer.”

“Because he wants all of this to happen on his own terms,” Sherlock said darkly. “Lestrade breathes when his kidnapper allows him to; remains conscious when he is permitted to do so. He will live and die by his captor’s hands. His restraints need to be foolproof.” Sherlock sighed heavily through his nose. “Because, if given the choice, Lestrade would sooner take his own life than allow someone else to dictate when he’s going to die. And the kidnapper knows this. He’s not about to take any chances.”

“So his solution is to keep Lestrade tied up and caged in as confined a space as possible.” John shook his head. “Sadistic.”

“Effective.”

“Sherlock -” John started to scold.

“Why did he have to be such a _bloody idiot_?” Sherlock growled abruptly, interrupting him. He grabbed the nearest file and chucked it at the door. John flinched but didn’t move; documents and photographs rained down around their heads. Sherlock’s face immediately went slack, all of the rage burned away in that one instant. “He always cared too much.”

And then, John realised that they were no longer talking about the present. His breath stilled in his chest, but he said nothing, because Sherlock rarely volunteered information about himself and most certainly never did about the five years he worked with Lestrade before John came along.

Sherlock went over to the window. He held his hands behind his back, one tucked into the other, his eyes fixed on the building across from them.

John continued to say nothing; willed his body not to move, even, as though the slightest movement might frighten Sherlock off.

“I told you once,” Sherlock said at last, “that we met over a crime scene.”

“I remember,” John said quietly.

Sherlock nodded to himself. “What I failed to mention... was that I was the victim.”

He turned back to John, lifted an eyebrow, and then added, “Breathe, John.”

John did so, not realizing that he’d stopped until air rushed into his chest, which burned in protest.

“You - what?”

“Oh, don’t act so surprised,” Sherlock snapped. “Do use your head, John. You’re very aware of the high-risk lifestyle I led prior to our acquaintance; found that out the very first day you met me, in fact, thanks to Lestrade. Is it really such a leap to find out that I have been as much a victim to crime as I have been a perpetrator?”

John’s brain stuttered to a halt, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh, for God’s _sake_. I really don’t have the time for your incredulity, and Lestrade certainly doesn’t. Do you remember nine years ago, the Montague Street murders? January, 2005.”

“Yeah,” John nodded. “I think, at least.”

“You think,” Sherlock scoffed. “You probably remember only what the tabloids shoved in your face for weeks, each story more sordid than the last.”

John spoke to floor as he tried to remember, his words heavy and stumbling as he forced his brain into gear. “They were... unknowns. Young men, without families, usually sleeping rough, who were plucked off the streets, tortured for a while, and then... shot. Easy targets.”

Sherlock’s face shuttered briefly before clearing. “I was the sixth victim. The final one, too, as it happens.”

“You?” John blinked, and then the pieces of everything that went unsaid fell into place. This _was_ Sherlock, after all. “Oh, God. You solved your own murder. Well... er, attempted murder.”

“Murder,” Sherlock said briskly. “I had been dead for two minutes, fifteen seconds when they found me. I just didn’t stay that way.” He smirked, amused, but John didn’t return the small smile and Sherlock quickly dropped it. “Lestrade was sent to question me when I woke up.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Not much,” Sherlock said with a shrug. And then his voice turned smug. “Only that he was looking for a man, possibly 1.75 meters in height and 81 kilograms in weight. Someone who spent a lot of time on his feet--most likely a factory worker going by the mud on his shoes, and one who worked in south London, judging by his haircut.”

“His haircut,” John repeated dully.

“Indeed.” Sherlock pulled out his mobile; twirled it through his fingers. He added, absentmindedly, “He also had a most peculiar aftershave. Expensive. Woodsy. A gift, more than likely; it’d have cost him a month’s pay. And he tasted of cheap whisky.”

“I -” John stopped cold, swallowing the question before it could leave his mouth. _Tasted._

_Oh, Sherlock._

But Sherlock had already whirled away, reaching for John’s laptop, apparently unaware of what he had let slip--or the connections John would draw from it. John stared at his back for some moments, mouth open, before sense slammed into him and he shut it with a click of his jaw. He was saved from coming up with a response by Sherlock’s mobile ringing.

Sherlock brought the device wordlessly to his ear, eyes on the video stream.

_It’s been half an hour._

“I’m aware.”

_Are you watching closely?_

On cue, the screen went dark.

“Sally!” John called through the open door, not daring to tear his eyes from the laptop. Feet pounded down the hallway, and a moment later no less than three officers charged into the room.

“What’s happened?” Donovan demanded breathlessly.

“No idea,” John said, nodding at the screen. Sherlock held the mobile pressed to his ear, knuckles gone white. John asked, “What’s he saying?” even though, thus far, the kidnapper had only communicated via the computer.

“Nothing,” Sherlock bit back.

It was, John estimated, less than ten minutes before the green text appeared on the screen again and Sherlock’s grip on the phone relaxed fractionally.

_Are you watching closely?_

And then the video stream appeared again.

It took John some seconds to realise what had happened. He noticed it around the same time Donovan sucked in a sharp breath. 

“Fuck,” John hissed.

Lestrade was still blindfolded, and a sheen of sweat had broken out across his forehead and the side of his face that they could see. His hands were still bound in front of him, though the ropes appeared to have been taken off and replaced. And his left hand was now bound in a makeshift bandage. It covered his entire hand but did little to hide the fact that it had suffered severe damage. A dark stain covered much of the pristine cloth, and John couldn’t pretend to himself this time that this was merely sweat.

He cursed again.

\----

The package arrived within ten minutes.

Donovan, grey and quivering with fury, was the one to open it. They already suspected what they would find; it did nothing to lessen the shock.

The finger had been severed so close to the final knuckle, the tan line was still visible.


	4. Chapter 4

  
In the flurry of activity that followed, John almost didn’t notice Sherlock slip from the room. He saw him go at the last second, the heel of one highly-polished shoe disappearing around the corner. By the time John managed to duck from the conference room, Sherlock had vanished, and it took close to ten minutes to track him down.  
  


Sherlock didn’t look up when John entered the bathroom. He was hunched over a sink, one hand holding onto the counter for support while the other pressed a cloth to his mouth. His skin was eerily translucent and the curls that fell across his forehead were damp from the water he had just splashed on his face. When the door swung shut, he raised bruised eyes to the mirror, and regarded John heavily while he finished wiping his mouth.

“Satisfied?” he asked dully, tossing the cloth over his shoulder without looking back. It landed in the wastepaper basket. He then leaned forward, pressing both hands flat on the counter and letting his head hang between his arms. “Sherlock Holmes is human. You can put _that_ in your blog.”

_ People want to know you’re human. _

_ You machine _ .

He’d been so very, very wrong about that. They all had.

“I’m sorry.” John swallowed. “That was... wrong of me.”

Sherlock said nothing; barely even moved, except to draw breath.

“We’re going to find him,” John said quietly.

Sherlock gave a jerky nod of his head. “Not alive.”

John sighed.

“Probably not.”

“Then what’s the point?”

He shrugged. “Closure.”

Sherlock snorted.

John went on. “We’ll catch him, Sherlock. Whether Lestrade is alive or not, we’ll find the _bastard_ who did this. And I’ll put a bullet right into his brain; you can be assured of that.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not if I get to him first.”

John crossed his arms and leaned his weight against the wall.

“What happened next?” he asked eventually. Sherlock’s back remained to him, but his shoulders tightened into a stiff line.

“After my assault, you mean? Nothing,” he said finally. “Lestrade got his murderer, thanks to my efforts. Mycroft’s people secured my release from the hospital. Some days earlier than the doctors would have liked, but he wanted to get to me while he could. I was hardly in a position to put up a fight.” Sherlock’s lip curled. “Those _damned_ painkillers.”

“He got you clean,” John ventured, not knowing why else Mycroft would have needed to get at his brother.

“ _I_ did that,” Sherlock snapped, unwilling to grant his brother even the slightest bit of credit. “He simply footed the bill and pulled the necessary strings. Lestrade found me some months after I returned to London.”

“He sought _you_ out?” John asked, incredulous, always believing it to be the other way around. Sherlock gave a mirthless smile.

“I’m surprised it took him that long. They were in _dire_ need of help.”

“I’m sure,” John said dryly. He knew full well--and likely Sherlock did, too, though he’d never admit it--that Lestrade could solve every case he threw at Sherlock, if given enough time. He just didn’t always have the luxury of that.

“Mycroft showed up here, once and only once,” Sherlock went on absently, lost in the memory. “He came to fetch me for a case. I was working on the Hampton murders at the time; much more interesting.” Sherlock snorted in amusement and shook his head.

“What happened?”

“I refused to go with him. Mycroft made the mistake of insinuating that there were a number of ways he could get me to comply. Lestrade punched him.”

John couldn’t help it; he chuckled. “Oh, he would. No wonder you were fond of him.” And then he caught himself. “ _Are_ fond of him.”

“He -” Sherlock cut off abruptly as his mobile started ringing again. He straightened, face hardening, and John pushed himself off the wall. Half an hour, already?

“Is it him?” John asked quietly. Sherlock nodded, and brought the phone to his ear as they dashed back to the conference room.

\-----

The text was waiting for them on the screen, and Donovan hissed, “Where _have_ you been?”

John shook his head and mouthed _Later_. Sherlock turned his back on the two of them, focusing on the laptop instead.

_ I’m bored. Let’s change things up a bit. And no asking for help from your friends; I’ll know if you do. I’m always listening. _

“What do you want?” Sherlock ground out.

_ I’m going to ask you a question. Get it right, he gets to keep the fingers he has left. _

_ Get it wrong, and you’ll be receiving another package very soon. _

“Tell me,” Sherlock said tightly.

_ How well do you know the solar system, Sherlock Holmes? _

Behind him, John let out a hiss of breath. Sherlock felt his jaw tighten. _Damn_ that blog of his!

“Well enough,” he snapped.

_ Good. Then you should have no trouble naming the closest star.  _

Sherlock let out a breath. He silently thanked Lestrade for his mindless hobbies, ones that he insisted on inflicting on everyone around him.

“Proxima Centauri,” he said, and beside him John relaxed slightly.

It was a moment before new text appeared on the screen.

_ Wrong _ .

And then:

_ It’s the sun. _

The screen went dark.

\-----

When the laptop came on again, the counter had reset itself, back to _4:30_.

It was hard to tell with the poor quality of the video, but it appeared that Lestrade was trembling, his limbs quivering with the effort it was taking him to remain composed. He was biting down on his lip, hard, and as his wrists had been bound together again he was holding his right hand out at an awkward angle, trying to keep it from the mound of bandages that covered his left.

The package arrived bare minutes later. Donovan went to meet it.

“How many?” John asked immediately when Donovan re-entered the room, looking grim and unsteady on her feet. If they could get the fingers on ice, they might be able to save them, but it would depend on where the digits had been severed, how clean the cuts were, how long ago it had occurred...

“He sent us Lestrade’s watch,” she said, interrupting John’s thoughts, her words coming in unsteady fits and spurts. “It... um. It was still on his wrist.”

John felt suddenly very faint. Donovan vanished just as abruptly as she had come, summoned by another detective holding a file, but her words seemed to snap Sherlock out of his daze.

“What is it you want?” he bellowed into the mobile, and slammed his hand down on the table. John started violently. “ _Tell me_.”

It was an age before the text appeared at the bottom of the screen.

_ Nothing _ .

“What do you mean, _nothing_?” Sherlock hissed. “There is always _something_.”

Lestrade’s mobile buzzed, and bore another text.

_ You took my father. _

Sherlock was already out the door and halfway down the corridor before John realised he had gone. He hurried after him. 

“We’re missing something,” Sherlock was telling Donovan when John caught up. He slapped the mobile into her hand, pointing furiously at the message. “I asked him what he wanted; he sent this message again. He wouldn’t send it more times than was necessary. He’s trying to tell us something and we’re _missing_ it.”

Sherlock whirled around, racking anxious fingers through his already-unkempt hair, his eyes wide and unseeing as he took in the room.

_ You took my father _ .

Sent to Lestrade’s phone, yes, but why send something Lestrade would never read -

The implication hit John full in the chest, and _God_ , they’d been going about this the wrong way the entire time.

And Lestrade was going to pay for it. _Had_ been paying for it.

_ Oh, Jesus Christ _ .

“Sherlock,” he said sharply, grabbing the other man’s elbow as he breezed past. Sherlock turned murderous eyes on him.

_ “What?” _

“That message. That _note_ ,” John said quickly, before he lost Sherlock’s attention. “He’s not talking about Lestrade.”

Sherlock shrugged off John’s hand. “We don’t have time for your inane theories -”

“ _Listen_ for a moment, would you?” John snapped. “He may have sent it to Lestrade’s phone, but _he’s not talking about Lestrade_. He’s talking about _you_. That message is for you, Sherlock.”

The room around them had fallen silent, John realised. All eyes had turned on them.

When John spoke again, his voice was quiet. “It was all a diversion, sending the link to everyone on the team and then using Lestrade’s phone to send that message. He wanted us to believe this was an attack aimed at Lestrade. But it’s not. He’s trying to get at _you_ , Sherlock.”

“Why?’ Donovan asked. 

“Because Lestrade didn’t take away his father. You did, Sherlock,” John went on, softer, focusing entirely on his friend. He stared intently at Sherlock, begging him silently to _listen_ for a moment, ignoring the flicker of impatience in his eyes. “And now he’s taking away yours.”

Sherlock blinked. “We’re - he’s not -”

“It _doesn’t matter_ what you are or aren’t,” John said harshly. “It only matters what it _looks_ like. Don’t you see? This is how he perceives you two.” John hesitated a moment, and then added, “And maybe there’s some truth to it, if that’s the impression you give to others. Ever think about that?”

“By that logic,” Sherlock growled, his voice so quiet that even John had difficulty making out the words, “there would be some truth to what the public says about _us_.”

“And maybe there is,” John said calmly. Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally.

“John -”

“Look,” John interrupted, because they were wasting precious moments. “That message was for you, not for Lestrade, so we _should_ be looking for someone locked up because of you, not for someone Lestrade alone arrested. Someone with a family; someone who has a male relative likely to hold a grudge. Unless you have any better ideas?”

John didn’t give Sherlock a chance to answer. His eye caught the clock on the wall.

_ Four hours _ .

“How many cases did he work for you?” John asked, turning to Donovan. She shared a glance with Anderson.

“Thirty-five, give or take,” he told them. John nodded.

“Let’s start going through those files, then,” he said resignedly. He looked over at Sherlock. “And you should start raking that brain of yours.”

_ Love is a powerful motivator _ .

The words reverberated painfully through John’s head as Sherlock, without a word of complaint, turned on his heel and returned to the conference room.

Had it been any other case, he would not have wasted his time on such a mundane task.

\----

John was halfway through his third file when he finally decided to voice a thought that had been bothering him for the better part of the afternoon--one that he hadn’t mentioned aloud until now, because surely Sherlock would have already considered it.

Still, at this point, it could hardly hurt to ask. 

“Have you ever considered -”

But Donovan’s sudden shout of, “Where the _hell_ do you think you’re going?” echoed down the hallway, interrupting him. A moment later, two men in impeccable suits appeared in the doorway, and John groaned even before one of them turned and said, “He’s in here, sir.”

“ _Mycroft_ ,” he hissed in annoyance. “Just what we need.”

Sure enough, not seconds later the elder Holmes entered the room, followed closely by Donovan.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock spat. “I would have thought you wouldn’t _risk_ it after what happened last time you stepped foot in the Yard.”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock’s second comment. The eye roll was evident in his voice even as his face remained passive, if slightly put-out. “Come along; I’ve a job to discuss with you.”

“Like I told you this morning: not interested,” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft sniffed. “The Detective Inspector? Really, Sherlock. These people - well, they might not be _capable_ of handling it, but they’ll do an adequate job. Nothing short of a miracle will save him, of course, so it’s not as though they’d be doing him any harm.”

“Excuse me?” Donovan said, bristling. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“I _think_ I am Sherlock’s brother.” Mycroft gave a smug smile that John tried not to smack from his face. “And I’d be quite correct. Now come along; I’ve a car waiting. If we’re lucky, we can have everything wrapped up by noontime tomorrow.”

“I’m not coming.”

Mycroft lifted his chin. “I can assure you, it’s _very_ interesting.”

Sherlock balled his right hand into a fist; a vein throbbed for a moment in his forehead. Then he visibly relaxed, lifted his chin, and said three words that struck John dumb: “I don’t care.”

“He is _one_ person, Sherlock,” Mycroft said gravely. “I appreciate that you... appear to care for him. But _caring_ will not save him; you know that all too well, I think.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

“Meanwhile, the fate of thousands rests entirely on your shoulders.” Mycroft wrinkled his nose briefly before his face smoothed out again. “Much as I am loath to admit it, you are the only hope we - _they_ \- have.”

Sherlock turned on his heel abruptly, focusing his attention on John. “What were you about to say? Before my brother so _rudely_ interrupted.”

John sighed and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“That there’s one thing we haven’t considered here,” he said finally, dropping his hands. He blinked several times, feeling as though he was dragging sandpaper over his eyes. It felt as though they had been at this for days.

“This isn’t Moriarty,” Mycroft said calmly, answering John’s unspoken suspicion while Sherlock paced the room furiously.

_ Moriarty _ . It’d been ages since he’d heard the name spoken aloud, not since the night of Sherlock’s return last winter when they had sat on the floor in front of the fireplace at Baker Street, wrapped in blankets and pointedly not looking at one another while Sherlock recounted his years of absence. Moriarty had been on that rooftop with Sherlock three years before; had faked his death in order to get Sherlock to jump. And for the next three years Sherlock had worked quickly and quietly to bring Moriarty’s empire to its knees, chipping away at the network until there was nothing left but the man at the top.

And, like a tower without its supports, the network crumbled, and though the mastermind behind it all eluded destruction, Sherlock was still able to return home and restore his name.

They hadn’t heard from Moriarty since. Not, at least, until today.

“What?” John said, surprised. “No, of course it is! This is clearly personal, and we’ve finally figured out that it’s someone who wants to get at _Sherlock_ , not Lestrade. And working remotely; letting something else do the work so he doesn’t get his hands dirty? That’s Moriarty all over!”

“You’re right, of course,” Mycroft said. He smirked while John burned with rage. “This _is_ personal; aimed at my brother. And that’s why it isn’t Moriarty.”

“You know, I am _really_ getting tired of these riddles -”

“If Moriarty had taken the Inspector,” Mycroft said, talking over John, “it would have been part of a much larger plan. Lestrade would have been the precursor; his kidnapping and torture, meant to irritate, but not to enrage. If this was Moriarty, and he wanted to _truly_ get at my brother...” Mycroft paused heavily. “He’d have taken _you_ , John.”

John blinked, struck dumb. Mycroft shook his head. “No, this is someone from the old days. From the beginning, back when it was just my brother and the Inspector, rather than my brother and his... blogger. This is someone who doesn’t know about you, John - or, if he does, he doesn’t quite realize how you fit into my brother’s life.”

_ Or someone who doesn’t  _ care _how I fit into his life_ , John thought as Sherlock swept by. There was more than one way to get to Sherlock Holmes, John was learning, and someone out there understood that better than any of them.

\----

_ Early days. Before John. Think think think. _

Sherlock paced the room furiously, dredging up memories made cloudy and uncertain by those years of drug abuse. The drugs had stopped the boredom but dulled his senses; luckily enough for him, even half-strung-out on cocaine he was still miles beyond everyone else. Even on his slowest day his mind could run circles around Lestrade’s team, and that alone had saved him.

That, and Lestrade himself.

_ Think _ .

Sherlock paused to take a drink of water, pointedly ignoring his brother. Mycroft went on regardless. “The clock is ticking, Sherlock, and my patience is wearing thin.”

“That’s hardly my problem, now, is it?” Sherlock snapped. 

“It is, actually.”

Sherlock slammed the glass he was holding down onto the table. It shattered on impact, spilling water over the nearby files while the shards of glass cut into his palm. He saw the blood, but didn’t register the pain.

“I will work on your little _puzzle_ ,” he hissed, not looking at his brother, “once the Inspector is found, and not a moment before. Good day, Mycroft.”

Mycroft paused on his way out.

““ _Omnes una manet nox”_ ,” he said quietly. “You’re wasting your time, Sherlock.”

John cast questioning eyes on Sherlock once Mycroft had gone. Sherlock tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his palm while two sergeants tried to clean up the mess on the table.

“It’s Latin,” he said quietly. “Written by Horace. A Roman poet.”

Sherlock cast dark eyes on the spot where his brother had stood moments before.

“Loosely translated, _The same night awaits us all_.”

_ And the road of death is to be tread only once. _

_ Road _ .

Sherlock jerked back suddenly as the word flashed before his eyes, briefly, as though it had been seared onto the inside of his eyelids.

_ Road. Gravel. Path. _

_ Walking path. Walk. Tread. _

“Sherlock?”

_ Tread on the tyres. Tyres. Car.  _

_ Driver. _

“Sherlock?’

_ And here I thought you were supposed to be a genius. _

_ Proper genius. _

_ You took my father _ .

“John!” Sherlock staggered, words and pictures continuing to dance before his dazed eyes. John caught him by the forearm, holding him upright.

“What’s wrong?”

Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders.

_ “I know who did this.” _


	5. Chapter 5

  
The words landed like a blow.  


“ _What_?” John hissed, knowing he should feel relieved. But Lestrade was still in that box. “Who?”

But Sherlock was already scrambling for his laptop, barking mono-syllabic orders to the sergeants around him: _Jefferson Hope. File. Now._

When Sherlock’s phone rang less than a minute later, on the half-hour mark, he snatched it briskly from his pocket and brought it to his ear, his expression murderous.

“ _I know who you are_ ,” he growled.

They waited for a moment, but no text appeared on the screen.

“Did you _really_ think I wouldn’t be able to figure out your little puzzle?” Sherlock went on, his voice a low hiss. “You were young when your father died; even younger when he left, isn’t that right? He kept a picture of you, though, in his cab.”

John sucked in a breath. “Oh, my God. _The cabbie._ ”

“I saw it, the night he died. What were you, ten? Eleven? Picture was at least five years old at the time, going by the clothing. Fifteen or sixteen when he died, then, and... almost twenty now.”

A sergeant darted into the room, holding a file. Sherlock snatched it from him and flipped it open. His face lit as his suspicions were confirmed.

“Correction,” he said. “You _are_ twenty. Just turned, in fact. An adult, now, whose father never got to see him grow up. That must have _hurt_ , didn’t it, _Robert_?”

There was still nothing on the computer screen but Lestrade’s still form. Sherlock plunged ahead.

“But then there was a man, wasn’t there? James Moriarty. He came to you; gave you and your sister money. Money your father earned while in his employ. I bet you he told you your father died a hero... and that Sherlock Holmes was responsible for his death. He told you I watched your father die. And you know what? _I did._

“I stood over your father while the life bled out of him, pooling on floor all around us,” Sherlock snarled, and John was taken aback by the utter contempt in his voice. “ _I am the reason he was shot_. And I don’t regret it for a second. He bled on my shoes, Robert. That was rather rude of him, don’t you think?”

“Sherlock...” John muttered under his breath. This was going to get out of hand, and fast. 

Sherlock ignored him. “And you’ve had _years_ to plot your revenge, haven’t you, Robert? Well, you miscalculated. _Because so have I_.”

His eyes were blazing as he stared at the computer screen. “I spent three years tracking down Moriarty’s network. I killed more men in that time than you’ve had yet to meet in your twenty _miserable_ years of existence. I jumped off a _fucking building_ to save the man you’re now holding hostage. So what do you think I’m going to do to you when I finally get my hands on you? Let _justice_ run its course?”

John reached out and touched Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock jerked away from him.

“I didn’t _fake my death_ for it to end like this, you can be assured of that,” he hissed. “I didn’t leave behind _everything I had ever known_ for it to end like this. I didn’t bring down Moriarty’s entire network, and cross the globe, and _it doesn’t end like this!”_

John seized Sherlock’s wrist and pulled the phone away from his ear.

_ “Enough,”_he mouthed vehemently. He squeezed Sherlock’s wrist, hard, and after a moment Sherlock gave a sharp nod. 

He brought the phone back to his ear, licked his lips, and said, softer, “You’ve been plotting this revenge for ages. And now you’re taking it. You have no wish to kill Lestrade; not really, not unless it achieves your end goal.”   
  
Finally, words appeared on the computer screen.   
  
_ And what is that? _  
  
“To hurt me.”  
  
The pause that followed was two heartbeats too long.  
  
 _ Is it working? _  
  
And then the screen went dark.  
  
\----  
  
“ _No_ ,” Sherlock bellowed. “You _son of a bitch_. Bring it back!”  
  
Donovan looked visibly shocked at the outburst. John was as well, but he couldn’t afford to let it show. Time was running out.  
  
“Sherlock,” he said, springing forward and grabbing his friend’s arm, giving a firm shake. “Not the time. There’s nothing we can do about it. We need to focus on _finding him_.”  
  
“And how do you suggest we go about doing that?” Sherlock snapped.   
  
“I don’t know. But we’ve got Robert Hope’s back against the wall,” John hissed. “And have you ever seen an animal cornered? They _don’t_ go down quietly. He’s going to lash out, and Lestrade’s the closest target. He might not even wait for the air to run out, not at this point. So we need to _find_ Lestrade, and we need to find him now. Could you hear anything on the other end? Anything at all?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head mutely.  
  
“Okay. Okay.” John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing away all other sounds as darkness pressed in around him. _Think, think_. “It’s the cabbie’s son. What do we know about him?”  
  
Donovan already had snagged Sherlock’s laptop and was searching frantically. “Robert Hope?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock croaked.  
  
“Son of Jefferson Hope... here we are.” Donovan snorted, and shook her head. “Talk about poetic. Followed in daddy’s footsteps. He’s a _cabbie_.”  
  
“Always know a nice spot for a murder,” Sherlock muttered.  
  
“ _What_?”  
  
“He said that to me. The night he died.” Sherlock lifted bruised eyes to rest on John. “He said... he was surprised more of them didn’t branch out. It was a perk of being a cabbie, always knowing a nice quiet spot for a murder.”  
  
John snapped his fingers. “And if Robert Hope was following in his father’s footsteps...”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes widened.  
  
“ _Poetic_ ,” he whispered.  
  
“Sick, more like,” John muttered. He turned to Donovan. “You need to get people over to Roland-Kerr Further Education College. _Now_.”  
  
Donovan lifted her eyebrows in surprise, indicating that, even four years after the case, the college’s name still registered as familiar. It didn’t lessen her skepticism, however.  
  
“Why would he be kept there?” she asked, though she was already motioning for her sergeants to do as John commanded.  
  
“Because that’s where Jefferson Hope died, and this has _always_ been about him. About us.” Sherlock’s eyes were hard. “No doubt Robert Hope feels as though he is bringing things _full circle_. Sentiment. It always trips them up in the end.”  
  
“Nearly tripped you up, too,” John pointed out.  
  
Sherlock scowled heavily, but his next words were for Donovan. “He’s likely being kept in a room that’s isolated and sheltered. Probably one that’s underground. _Go_.”  
  
Donovan nodded, and left without further questions. John lingered, waiting for Sherlock.  
  
“Go,” Sherlock told him quietly.  
  
“I -” John gaped at him blankly for a moment. “You’re coming with, right?”  
  
Sherlock stared at him, hard, and then slowly shook his head.  
  
“Sherlock -”  
  
“I can’t,” Sherlock bit out. “John -”  
  
And then John understood - this was Sherlock, _lost_. Sherlock, reaching out for the only anchor he had left to him; reaching out to the one person who could clarify what he was feeling.  
  
“Stay here,” John commanded. “I’ll go.”  
  
“I -”  
  
John shook his head. “He’ll understand, Sherlock.”  
  
“I should -” Sherlock swallowed hard. “He was there.... That’s what people do. Isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes,” John agreed, a lump growing in his throat as he gazed at his _wrecked, rattled, damaged_ friend. Lestrade had been there for Sherlock when he needed someone the most. And now... “But... he’ll understand. He wouldn’t _want_ you there, knowing Lestrade, and you need to do what’s right for you. Stay here. I’ll call you when we have him.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock said suddenly, when John was halfway over the threshold. “If you find him -”  
  
“Yeah,” John said with a brisk nod. “I know. Robert Hope is yours.”  
  
\----  
  
Sherlock was alone.  
  
It felt as though Donovan had taken the entirety of the Yard with her, but it was only John who was missing. His had been the one consistent presence in the conference room; the only connection Sherlock had that day to the rest of the Yard. Though Sherlock could hear the activity beyond the walls, the rest of the building was now separate from him. He had no business with them, nor they with him. He was isolated and out-of-place, and he had never minded it before -  
  
\- before what?  
  
Before Moriarty. Before the Fall. Before today, when the illusions he had harboured about Lestrade’s invincibility had been brutally stripped away by a grainy video and a few sure strokes of a knife.  
  
Sherlock rubbed his shoulder absently. It was sore still from the previous night’s case - _was it only last night?_ \- and today’s stresses. The pressure of his own hand was warm and solid; the gesture, familiar. And then suddenly it was a different night; his hand, replaced by another’s.  
  
 _ You have a name, lad? _  
  
John’s laptop was still dark; the video feed, dead. The kidnapper had no use for it anymore, and so there was little point in trying to raise it again.  
  
There was nothing for it but to wait.  
  
Sherlock sank into a chair and tugged the laptop closer, but it was five minutes before he realized that he was just sitting there with his fingers on the keys. He couldn’t recall what he’d meant to look up, if it had been anything at all. He pushed it away and dropped his face into his hands, blocking out the light, trying to focus -  
  
 _ No, I’ll stay with him. Don’t think he’s got anyone else. _  
  
Lestrade had been less grey then; hardly grey at all, in fact. He’d silvered quickly once that first grey hair appeared--and more than once he’d blamed Sherlock for that--but his face had changed little over the years. The worn but kind eyes that had rested on Sherlock the night of his fall and greeted him upon his return three years later had also seen Sherlock through the worst of that hospital stay.  
  
 _ I’ve got some water. Think you can sit up for it? _  
  
A sudden vibration cut through his thoughts, and Sherlock started. He pulled his head from his hands and blinked several times; when his vision cleared, he saw that his mobile had lit up.  
  
It was John.  
  
“We’ve got him.” He was out of breath but his voice had been made sharp by the rush of adrenaline. “Lestrade.”  
  
The buzz of voices around Sherlock faded to a distant hum; the flurry of activity outside the conference room slowed to a crawl. Sherlock’s periphery darkened down to a tunnel. He pulled the phone away from his face, leaden fingers clamping around it so that it wouldn’t slip to the floor. Distantly, he was aware of John’s voice.  
  
 _ Sherlock? Sherlock! _  
  
This was the last moment, the final few seconds in a world where Lestrade might be alive. He could stay here, content in his illusion, forever. And perhaps this phone call would confirm that fantasy, and make it a reality.  
  
But then, it might not.  
  
Lestrade was _alive_. He was alive, he was alive, he _had to be alive_.  
  
He was a constant, much like John. The world could change, fluctuate, _move_ around Sherlock and it would not matter, because the other two were there.  
  
Unless Lestrade wasn’t; not anymore.  
  
What would happen if he wasn’t?  
  
Then again, what would happen if he _was?_ Because it was one thing to slay a lion; it was another entirely to leave him broken and useless.  
  
Sherlock wanted a Lestrade who could no longer exist; one who had not proved vulnerable to the cut of a knife; one who had not fallen victim to a madman’s whims. He wanted a world where the assaults on those closest to him ended with the fall of Moriarty’s network.  
  
John could give him none of those things. Lestrade was alive or he was dead; in no scenario would he ever be whole again.   
  
_ Sherlock! _  
  
With trembling fingers, he brought the mobile to his ear.  
  
“Yes, John. I’m here.”

  



End file.
